


I've Never Been In Love Before

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-poisonous flowers, Romance, Sherlock and candles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock contemplates love.  And sets a lovely table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Never Been In Love Before

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to The Moment You Were Mine.

I thought my heart was safe.  
I thought I knew the score.  
Now all at once it’s you,  
It’s you forever more.  
-Michael Feinstein

 

Clearly, it was one thing to stand in a rubbish bin [in Barking, on a Wednesday afternoon] and realise that you were absolutely, positively in love with your [aggressively heterosexual] flatmate and accept that as a fact.

It was quite another thing to know what to do about that dreadfully inconvenient truth.

Still, Sherlock Holmes was possessed of a fine scientific mind [probably one of the best of his generation], so he did not doubt that once he had made a logical, fact-based study of the situation, he would know what his next move should be.

For the next two weeks, he spent every moment that was not devoted to The Work thinking about the case of John Watson and what to do about the fact that he was painfully in love with the oblivious man. Such deep cogitation rather caused him to ignore the very subject of all that thought. Because of that, at the end of the fourteen days, not only was he no closer to a solution to the puzzle, but he also found that he had a rather irritable flatmate, who apparently did not enjoy feeling invisible for that length of time.

Obviously, it was time to do something.

One evening, while John was doing a shift at the clinic [which continued to take up far too much of his time, as far as one consulting detective was concerned, not even mentioning the presence of a certain person who undoubtedly still harboured romantic feelings towards the good doctor], Sherlock was at a crime scene with Lestrade.

They stood side by side, staring down at what Sherlock had immediately decided was a murder-suicide. An ordinary domestic. Sherlock, bored with it all, was thinking about something else as he gazed at the bloody bodies. He huffed impatiently. “I am unfamiliar with the rituals of…” he started. Then, wondering what he was doing, he closed his mouth.

Lestrade just looked at him.

“The art of wooing,” Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade seemed confused. “This has something to do with the case?”

“What case? I already told you exactly what happened here!” Then Sherlock reconsidered his words and backstepped gracefully. “Well, yes, of course, the case. What else could it have to do with?”

Lestrade only sighed and then looked around the room, at the table set with fine china, candles, flowers. No one had yet switched off the Bose player, which was continuing to churn out saccharine love songs. “Well, someone was certainly wooing. Or possibly trying to salvage a relationship gone badly wrong.”

“Let’s concentrate on the wooing for the moment, shall we?” Sherlock did not want to think about relationships going badly wrong. “So. Candles? Flowers? An elaborate meal?” He grimaced. “Bad music?”

“All pretty standard, yes,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded slowly.

“That’s important, then?” the police inspector asked, with a nod towards the two bodies  
.  
Sherlock blinked. “What? Oh, to them? Not at all.” He whirled and headed for the door. “Don’t bore me with petty domestic things,” he ordered over one shoulder.

 

It could never be said that Sherlock Holmes underestimated his own talents. At the same time, he reluctantly accepted his limitations, no matter how few they might have been.

As he thought things over carefully, it became clear that cooking an exceptional meal was one of those limitations. No fear. He was a man who did know how to harness his resources to best advantage. Which meant that a quick text to Angelo to arrange a delivery had dinner covered.

Really, this wooing thing was a doddle once you got started.

Next, he paid a call on Mrs. Hudson. “Do you have any candles?” he asked.  
She looked immediately suspicious. “Now, Sherlock, you know that John has forbidden any experiments that involve an open flame.”

He was momentarily offended, until he recalled the Unfortunate Incident of the Sitting Room Curtains. “It’s not for an experiment,” he said sullenly. Just because someone had a valid point didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Then why do you want candles?”

He looked away and cleared his throat. “For the table,” he muttered. “For dinner.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at him for a moment and he rather thought her lips twitched just a bit. “In that case…“ She went to the cupboard and pulled out two ivory-coloured tapers, as well as a couple of silver holders, which he hadn’t thought of at all. “Here you go.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks.

“You’re not cooking, are you?” she asked, looking worried suddenly.

“Angelo is delivering.”

“Oh, good. I’m doing some baking this afternoon. Would you like a little something for afters?”

He thought for a moment, before saying more than intended. “Yes, that would be good. John likes something sweet after a meal.” He started for the door and then paused. “Thank you,” he said, surprising both himself and Mrs. Hudson.

It had to be said that cleaning was also not one of Sherlock’s many skills. But he did what he could, removing all the experiments from the table and then, considering what some of those experiments had been, scrubbing the surface down. Then he managed to find a clean white sheet and draped it over the table.

Fine china was not something that really existed in their kitchen, but he did manage to find two plates that matched, two unchipped wine glasses, and, improbably, two only slightly wrinkled linen napkins. When he added the candles in the gleaming silver holders, he judged that the table looked really very nice.

He ran out briefly to get flowers, which was an adventure, but the little yellow ones and little white ones [which, since he did not recognise the variety, were probably not poisonous] were satisfactory. He also picked up a bottle of wine. When he returned to the flat, there was an iced chocolate cake sitting on the counter.

He pulled out his phone and sent a text to John.

CAN I ASSUME YOU WILL RETURN HOME AT THE USUAL TIME? SH

An answer arrived in only a few minutes.

UNLESS I DECIDE TO GO FOR A PINT WITH THE STAFF. JW  
PLEASE DON’T. SH  
YOU NEED ME? JW  
YES. SH

And John did not let him down.

OK. SEE YOU IN AN HOUR. JW

Fifty-seven minutes later the meal was keeping warm in the oven, the candles had been lit [and extraneous lights extinguished], and some Fritz Kreisler was playing softly in the background. [No ridiculous pop standards. In love he might have been, but Sherlock Holmes still had taste.]

He was sitting in his chair, wearing a black suit and his aubergine shirt, open at the neck, and staring at the door.

Right on time, he heard the downstairs door open and then the so-familiar footsteps coming up the steps. The door opened and John came in. His mouth opened to deliver his usual greeting, but when he saw what awaited him, it closed again. He stared at Sherlock, who realised that his position, perfectly upright, with both hands gripping his knees almost painfully, was somewhat unusual.

John looked at the table, with its candles and flowers, with the two glasses of wine already poured. Then, he looked at Sherlock for a long moment. Finally, a new kind of smile slowly arrived on John’s face.

Sherlock added wooing to the list of things at which he was very good, at least judging by that smile. [In the same moment he also realised that while he might not be the first person to ever see that smile, he would do whatever he could in life to ensure that he would be the last.] He tried not to look smug, with only limited success if the flash of humour in John’s eyes was anything to go by.  
Of course, this new skill was not something he would ever need to use again and that realisation brought a sudden and unexpected surge of warmth to the center of his chest.

Still smiling, John led the way to the table.

Sherlock paused before sitting. “Just in case you were wondering,” he said, “this is a date.”

“About time, too,” John replied.

Sherlock could not help the huff of laughter that emerged from somewhere deep inside. In fact, he didn’t even try to quell it.

As they started dinner, he told John the story of what had happened in a rubbish bin in Barking. On a Wednesday afternoon.

fini


End file.
